Requiem
by Alerix Slynn
Summary: He saw the gun dip. There was another little twitch of Moriarty's lips, as if he did not believe Sherlock would do it. But he did. Whump.
1. Chapter 1

~ Requiem ~

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Sherlock. _Sherlock_." John insisted, trying to calm the man as he was roughly stripped of the bombs that had fit so snugly around his torso, and watched them skid across the tiles.

There was a tense pause as they regarded each other, breathing heavily. John's heart was pounded against his ribcage. There was a flicker of something in Sherlock's eyes, the corner of his mouth twitched. His hand hovered over John's shoulder, hesitant to touch, but wanting to know that he was still there.

And then Sherlock was darting around the corner, gun still in hand, it was the closest John had seen him to distraught. He went to follow but his knees turned to jelly and buckled. He grunted as he forced himself to remain upright, but could do nothing more to stop himself from sliding to the cold tiles, his back resting against the change rooms.

He breathed deeply, trying to calm the roaring of his blood in his ears and the way the room seemed to spin. Coming down from the adrenaline rush, he realized, and closed his eyes briefly. He heard footsteps and glanced up as Sherlock came back into view.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. _Fine_." John replied shakily, offering a small smile. He listened as the other man began to ramble, pacing back and forth in front of him. He said something about it being 'good' that John was there and that he was safe. John smiled thinly, remarking that anyone seeing them then would assume Sherlock had been undressing John of more than a mere bomb.

"People always talk." Sherlock said easily.

They chuckled.

It was the easing of tension, John stared up at the tall figure huffing slightly, a smiling tingeing his own lips, and felt more than a little elated. They'd met the dreaded Moriarty and survived! Ha! It was, perhaps, the belief that they were suddenly and surely safe that made them deaf to the sound of the door opening, and the footsteps as the man of the moment stepped back inside the pool area.

John stared, horrified. Hadn't Moriarty said they could live? Perhaps not, he hadn't been thinking clearly while strapped to the bomb.

He watched, flabbergasted, as Sherlock's face and chest suddenly danced with bright red dots. From the look on the taller man's face, John guessed he was in a similar situation. He shifted uneasily but did not attempt to stand.

"Sorry boys! I am so changeable. It is my greatest weakness. But, to be fair, it is my _only_ weakness." Moriarty said in his singsong voice. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just _can't_."

The red dots swarmed over Sherlock's face, resting on his forehead.

John felt the adrenaline surge back to the surface, burning through his veins like acid. He puffed out a little breath. Sherlock was looking at him, and it was easy to understand the silent question.

_Really_? He asked back silently.

_Yes_.

John nodded. He felt his lip tremble ever so slightly and forced himself to be calm. He had to remain calm.

Sherlock pivoted on his heels, spinning to face Moriarty. John watched as his friend raised the gun, it did not waver, but focused on Moriarty.

They stared for a comment or two, but all John could think was, how did he get Sherlock out of the blast? How could he maneuver the man so that he was not vaporized on the spot? Nothing came to mind, and he supposed that was the shock.

Bloody bomb.

He saw the gun dip. There was another little twitch of Moriarty's lip, as if he did not believe Sherlock would do it.

But he did.

John almost willed himself to shout out, to tell Sherlock not to do it. But his lips went numb and his body moved beyond his control. Army training, perhaps. It took over as soon as he saw Sherlock's finger inch that little bit closer to the trigger.

His feet pushed away from the slippery tiles, projecting his body forward. His hands struck the course material of Sherlock's coat a breath after the gun exploded in the man's hand. John closed his eyes and felt himself flying backward.

There was a moment of pure, crystalline clarity. John felt the heat of the bomb, each ripple of power bending the air and pushing him further and further from the actually explosion until he felt his body begin the short but sharp descent to the ground. The force of the collision pushed the air from his lungs, made it hiss through his teeth until his chest felt hollow and painfully empty. He caught a quick flash of black, Moriarty, and then his head struck the tile and he closed his eyes.

~OO~

Sherlock didn't expect anything. To be honest he wasn't thinking straight. Not that he was going to admit _that_ to anyone.

He watched Moriarty's smile falter as he dipped the gun toward the bomb sitting between them. He pulled the trigger without another thought. It all happened so fast, he would not admit so afterwards, but he was feeling decidedly unsettled. He felt hands grab roughly at his back, pushing him forward. He tried to stay in place but he was tipping, without hindrance, toward the clear blue of the pool.

He hit without pause, sinking to the bottom before surging back to the surface. He breathed in a deep breath, choking as he quickly vomited up the water he'd somehow managed to suck down. Something hard struck him in the side of the head, throwing him back into the water. The pain was immediate and sharp, like someone was sticking a needle into his skull. He kicked to the side of the pool and leaned on the edge. Debris floated around him.

It was silent, except for the ringing in his ears, his gaze snapped around the room, taking in the smoke, the smashed tiles and the empty space where Moriarty's body should have been. He snarled and slammed his fists against the edge of the pool. They'd been so close!

With a quick thought, he fished around in his sodden pocket until he pulled out the pink phone. He dialed Lestrade, hoping for some assistance, clearly he wasn't thinking straight if he thought _Lestrade_ could help them. But he did it, nonetheless.

After a mumbled order without explanation, Sherlock dropped the phone to the tiles and pulled himself out of the pool. It seemed harder than it should have been, in fact, everything did. Breathing, thinking, blinking. He rubbed his eyes, hissing as the side of his head pulled painfully.

And then, he saw John.

His heart stuttered. Panic flared, not unlike the horror he'd felt at seeing his best friend attached to the bomb, and he struggled to his feet.

John was watching him glassily from where he lay crumpled against the fractured changing rooms. His shoulders were propped up while the rest of him lay sprawled limply, covered in bits and pieces, sidelong. There was blood covering half his face, trailing thin tendrils over his cheek and nose. Sherlock hurried over and crouched in front of him.

"John? John, can you hear me?" He reached out and gingerly tapped his friend's cheek, watching the sluggish response with worry.

John looked dreadful.

~OO~

The world danced in dull shades of greys and blacks. He drew in a breath and heard it catch somewhere deep in his chest. That couldn't have been good.

Why couldn't he think properly?

He couldn't move.

The thought didn't panic him as it should have. Because if he didn't move, he didn't feel. And he knew there must have been pain hidden beneath the layers of fog and numbness, and was glad that he was able to avoid it.

A shadow of black caught his eye and he managed to roll his gaze to the pool, where a blurred version of Sherlock was pulling himself out of the water, black hair glued to his forehead and dripping into his eyes. His coat looked heavy and dragged behind him as he approached. John watched him silently, not sure whether he could speak without making some pathetic sound.

Sherlock seemed to hover above him, a dark angel with piercing grey eyes and a spatter of blood over his left temple. John frowned, Sherlock was hurt.

He felt something tap his cheek. Constant. Annoying. He grimaced, reached up with one shaky hand to swat it away. Sherlock was still staring at him, his mouth parted, moving, probably saying something. But John's ears were ringing and he could hear a strange roaring sound, like the waves crashing against a cliff-face.

Again, he frowned in concern at the blood on Sherlock's face, he brought his hand up again, and touched the other man's face. He couldn't manage any higher than his chin, but perhaps he got his point across, because Sherlock wrapped one hand around his and touched the other to his temple, wincing ever so slightly.

There began a sharp whine, high pitched and choppy like a badly tuned radio with the signal switching in and out. There was a rumbling sound, and then there was a tender kind of silence. John blinked woozily, glad that he could hear once more.

"You 'kay?" He mumbled, disturbed at the weak resonance of his own voice.

Sherlock gave a sharp laugh that had him flinching back. "Me? Am I…Am I okay? John, you look half dead and buried, don't worry about me." Sherlock said. He spoke blatantly, earnestly, as Sherlock does.

"But you'rrre bleedin'." He said in reply, breath catching uncomfortably in his throat.

"I'm fine, John. Just breathe and try to stay still."

"Moriarty? Where'sss he?" John tried to shift and look toward the other end of the pool, but his arms just flailed and he found himself sliding lower toward the floor, eyes fluttering in a bout of weariness.

"Stay awake, John." Sherlock whispered, leaning close.

"Sure." He muttered, but his eyes were so heavy. Each time he blinked, he found it harder to open them again. Something sticky ran over his lip, itching. Tickling.

"_Sherlock_." He said suddenly, but it came out garbled, something hot was rising in his throat, threatening to cut off his airways. He thrashed, desperately trying to suck in air as his lungs screamed and his mind begged for respite.

John's back arched. His hands scrabbled at his sides, the tiles slid uselessly beneath his fingertips. He was aware of the strange noise emerging from his stretched lips, the crackle and slide of something within his chest and the ever-present sensation of both drowning and of suffocation. His eyes darted briefly toward Sherlock, the man hovered anxiously by his side, and then his eyes rolled back and he went limp.

He did not slip into unconsciousness, though, but was instead caught 'in between'. His mind was awake, the last dredges of awareness allowing him to feel his unmoving body fall into shock. He felt too, then, the gentle patter of fingers dancing over his chest, his neck, his chin and then his mouth.

Sherlock.

He suspected, but could only hope, that the man knew CPR.

Those gloved fingers tugged on his jaw, pinched his nose and soon he felt a warm puff of air on his nose as if the other man was steeling himself, and then Sherlock pressed his mouth against his and forced the air between his teeth.

If he'd had the capability, he would have protested the sudden intimacy. As it was, he had to lie there silently, wondering why he couldn't feel his chest rising. It was, at the last moment, the realization that his lungs were full of blood that had his mind reeling weakly. He wanted to tell Sherlock, but the man was smart. Of course he was. He would understand.

He felt his body carefully tipped sideways so that his head dipped and hit the tiles. A hand thumped him on the back, but uncertainly, almost tenderly. And John felt the red, sticky substance ooze over his lips. Sherlock rolled him onto his back, wiping a sleeve over John's mouth and then he was breathing for him again. Pausing to compress his chest.

He felt ribs crack, but there was no pain.

In fact, there wasn't much of anything anymore. John knew he could just let go, that no one would stop him from slipping away. Not even Sherlock could stop him. So easy, so simple…

And then the decision was torn from his hands as his body gave a violent jerk. A strange, gagging sound emerged from his clogged throat, and he spewed forth a thick river of bright red that quickly seeped into the cracks of the tiles and soaked his shirt.

Sherlock was making strange noises. Talking, perhaps. But John was barely listening. The sudden availability of air was a heady rush to the head and he had to steel himself against the dizzying sensation.

He blinked furiously, wishing the world would stop tilting and phasing in an out of focus. He found one of his hands quickly entangled in Sherlock's coat, fearful that he might slip again, and contemplate the easy fall of a quick death as if it truly were his decision.

He didn't want to feel that again.

"Just stay awake, John. Stay awake and let me think." He heard Sherlock muttering. He almost smiled, it was just like the man to say something almost selfish like that.

"Who'd you call?" He slurred, and Sherlock pulled him back so he could frown down into his face.

"What?"

"You…called someone. Who…?" He trailed off, a little hiccup accompanied by a bubble of blood popped on his lips.

Sherlock wiped it away distractedly before answering.

"Lestrade. I figured we could at least use some backup." The dark haired man answered on a sigh, John closed his eyes and settled into the warm puffs of air fluttering against his cheeks. He began to shiver, the movements dragging out small, helpless sounds from his mouth.

Sherlock, after a moment of thought, pulled John until he rested on the taller man's chest, cheek pressed to his shoulder and red-misted breath staining his dark coat. He admitted, silently, that it was easier to breathe this way. But he hoped to the high heavens that no one found them like that.

The rumor that they were a couple was already running rampant, people gave them knowing smiles as they entered crime scenes and he'd caught whispered comments on more than one occasion. He wished he knew how to cool his blush. Wagging tongues should have been the least of his worries.

It was nonsense, of course, utter nonsense. Really….

Sometime during his befuddled thoughts, Sherlock had begun to rub his back in circles, trying to ease his breathing, at least, that's what John told himself.

It was making him sleepy, though, and soon he found himself leaning heavily on Sherlock, perhaps even drooling, as he fought the less than gentle tug of something more than sleep. He felt his hand loosen on his friends coat, felt as each finger went limp and then fell away, leaving him feeling unreal and incorporeal.

He felt his will wavering.

"Watson!" Shook by the shoulders, his eyes snapped open and he openly regarded the familiar face with a mixture of confusion and irritation. He'd been so comfortable…so sleepy…

"Watson, just hang on, the ambulance will be here soon!" It was Lestrade, crouched beside them with a look of pure concern and anger.

John wondered when he'd gotten there, certainly he hadn't noticed, he supposed he must have blacked out. It happened in cases of extreme blood loss.

The thought made him feel sick.

He reached out and willed his fingers to hook in his friend's lapel, breathing harshly, he managed to look into Sherlock's face. The blood was still there, smudged slightly where his fingers had touched and there were now dark circles beneath his usually vivid eyes. A concussion.

"Sherlock." He groaned, barely able to get the words out between his chattering teeth. "I feel…I feel.." He broke off, unable to hold back the hacking coughs that seized his lungs and muscles until he thought his body was going to rip itself apart.

Sherlock was rubbing his back again, John could almost feel him giving a cold, hard stare to Lestrade, but neither of them said anything. Perhaps they knew John was going to die, and didn't want to waste their breath trying to convince him otherwise.

"You're not going to die, John." He heard Sherlock mutter in a bored tone, but there was a quiver beneath it, something akin to worry.

"…am." He whispered back, he felt himself falling again, although his cheek was still pressed to Sherlock's shoulder. He was falling and there was no escape.

~OO~

Sherlock glared as Lestrade and his pathetic gang of cronies came barreling through the door. It would have been humorous, the look on Lestrade's face when he came through the pool entrance, but somehow Sherlock found it nothing of the sort.

He gave Lestrade little details, nothing that actually explained the bomb, the pool, the whole situation in general. Moriarty. It was not that he disliked Lestrade, more that he did not feel the need to explain himself on the whole. Not while John was slowly and but surely dying in his arms.

He rubbed his hand over and over his friends back, heard the rattling somewhere deep in his chest each time he drew a breath, something close to fear filled him. He didn't want John to die. He didn't want to lose the only person he viewed as a friend.

Without Watson he would be alone. Again.

"Have you called the Ambulance? No, of course you haven't. Do it now." He said to Lestrade, his tone its usual haughty tenor. He felt no need for niceties at that moment.

Lestrade blinked blankly at him, one hand reaching out as if to touch Watson, but then he appeared to shake himself and pulled out his phone. In that momentary distraction, Sherlock pulled Watson's limp form closer, Lestrade did not need to touch him.

He looked down and to the side, trying to catch a peek at his friend's face, but Watson was turned, cheek resting heavily on his damp shoulder and his hair tickling Sherlock's chin.

The ambulance would arrive in approximately five minutes. Give a minute for heavy traffic and delays. John might not last that long, his body was bleeding heavily and judging by the sounds of his ragged breathing, his lungs were badly injured.

Sherlock shifted slightly, keeping his hand steady at John's back, Lestrade was coming back over, having stood and wandered over to Donovan. He looked frazzled, but still neat and rather composed. Lestrade was Lestrade.

"Hand me the phone." Sherlock ordered with a pointed look to the pink mobile still lying by the edge of the pool.

"Why?" Lestrade asked, brow furrowing. Nevertheless, he scurried over and scooped up the pink monstrosity, handing it over to Sherlock. He hesitated at the blood covering his hand.

But Sherlock said nothing at that little pause, he would have, normally. But this time it was different. It was Watson's blood.

There was no mystery to this event. The facts; Moriarty, Watson, Sherlock, bomb, pool. All mixed together and this is what you got. Blood and fear and the foul stench of shame. Watson had pushed him out of the way.

He took up the phone and typed in the numbers, careful to keep the screen averted from Lestrade's keen gaze.

_Moriarty. Not dead._

_SH_

He dropped the phone into his pocket.

"Who'd you text? Who did this, Sherlock? You need to talk to me." Lestrade asked, somewhat angrily. Indecently angry. It wasn't any of Lestrades business. He shouldn't be here.

"Then you shouldn't have called me." Lestrade retorted and Sherlock realized he must have said that aloud.

"I think you've got a concussion." Lestrade announced softly, eyeing the blood at the taller man's temple. He did not move to touch him or offer consolation, rather, remaining a reasonable distance to his side, close enough to keep the hungry hounds at his back at bay but also far enough that he was not crowding him.

"What happened?" He asked evenly.

"A bomb."

"Yes, Sherlock, I gathered that. But who's bomb, was it yours?" He looked doubtful.

"No. Not mine." He wondered why Lestrade assumed it was his, why would he willingly put John and himself in certain peril like this? Lestrade clearly did not think very highly of him.

And then there was the chaos as the paramedics came rushing in. Arms laden with the necessary equipment and faces set in grim lines. Sherlock did not back off as Lestrade did, but remained stubbornly attached to John. They pulled at his arms, peeling his fingers away with a kind of desperation that he did not like to see. At last they'd untangled them, and lay John's limp body flat on the ground to access his injuries.

Someone shone a light in his eyes, temporarily blinding him to the sad sight of his friend until he swatted the hands away. Fingers gently washed the blood from his face and applied a bandage, telling him something…something…shouldn't he have been listening?

They were gone before he could ask them to repeat, so it slipped his mind and he found himself sinking lower and lower to the ground until, with a surprised little jerk, he found his cheek pressed to the cold tiles. He watched through heavy eyes as the paramedics worked efficiently, trying to keep his John alive. But there was so much blood, and his friend had not moved or spoken for the longest time.

Sherlock felt his head begin to thump, rhythmic in the way that a heartbeat is, and the next time he tried to blink, he could not open his eyes.

Hope you enjoyed!

- Alerix Slynn


	2. Chapter 2

~ Requiem ~

Dragging himself out of sleep was like trying to swim through cotton wool. His limbs were heavy and his head leaden. John's lashes fluttered, he could hear a bird chirruping, notes that warbled gently through the air.

He stirred beneath the heavy covers of his bed, shivering as the cold hit his bare feet, and managed to sit upright. The room swayed dramatically around him. Like a swing and a lullaby, trying to sing him off into a doze before he could stop himself.

The chirruping turned into the ringing of his phone. Shaking fingers wrapped around the offending device, bringing it close to his ear. His breath whispered between his teeth.

Laughter. Someone chuckling at the other end. It sounded familiar. And then Sherlock's voice cut through the laughter, cold, calm, controlled.

"Catch. You. Later."

Another chuckle. Happy.

"No you won't!"

John dropped the phone as if burned. Images surged to the forefront of his mind. Imposing. Carrying with them the stench of fear. He looked around the room, blinking away the vision of Sherlock. Sherlock holding the gun. Moriarty. Moriarty laughing. Smiling. Fear.

John panted, patting down his chest spasmodically, body vibrating with that fear and uncertainty. He could feel them, the bombs, too tight. Suffocating. But there was nothing. Nothing but the thin material of his shirt between his fingers.

He shivered violently.

The memory, or was it a dream? Of being dragged into a black, sleek car with the feel of a gun pressing into the base of his neck. He was scared, yes, but also angry. A long drive, an awful silence and severe faces. No one spoke, and he was not willing to disrupt to quiet. When they did come to a stop, John was hushered out of the car to be stood face to facw with the one and only, Moriarty. He was smiling…..

The chirruping started at that moment, but when John looked to the window, he saw only the rain sleeting against the pane and the street beyond. No bird? He cocked his head to one side, bewildered and seeking.

A strange feeling came over him then. The sensation of cold, sticky fingers touching his neck, his chest. And then they pushed. Hard. Forceful. Driving the breath from his lungs until he felt empty. Something within him crinkled and gave way like paper, he gasped. Desperately wheezing for air.

Staggering upright, ignoring the spinning. He was so dizzy. So dizzy that he could barely see straight, he had to trust his sense of direction and the feel of the cold walls beneath his fingertips to lead him out of the room. He knew when he hit the living room, the smell of burnt toast overpowered the scent of rain. He heard a little shuffle and turned blindly toward the loungeroom.

A smudge of black shifted restlessly before him. It warped and then crystallized. Sherlock was holding his violin, watching John expectantly. A faint smile coiled across his lips.

"Did you hear the bird, John? I thought I heard a bird?"

He ran the bow over the violin, letting loose a long, painful wail. John frowned at him, he had no idea what Sherlock was going on about. _He_ was the one making the noise. He rubbed his head, and then his throat. The phatom hands were still there, light, but definitely there.

"Sherlock." John tried to say, but his words were raspy, barely coherent. "Sherlock, you have to call-"

"Why are you being so dramatic, John?" Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. Another wail filled the room.

"Sherlock…please..." John's legs began to buckle and he found himself slowly collapsing to the floor.

"Sarah will be here soon, John." Sherlock muttered with a knowing smile. He sat on his chair and played the violin. "You'd better rip your face off, here she comes."

No sooner had he said the words than she appeared before him. So beautiful. So perfect. He reached out his hand, wanting to touch her. She was doctor, she would help him.

But she simply stared. Head cocked to one side like an inquisitive bird, eyes bright.

"You'll be alright." She said, her voice sounded fuzzy, muffled and, contrary to her solemn expression, broken and desperate. "You'll be alright."

John blinked, so dizzy. He dragged in a thin breath and forced himself to look back up at her. She was still there. The sound of something choppy and loud filled his head, made his hair ruffle with an invisible wind. He clutched at his shoulder as pain blossomed and something warm and sticky began to ooze between his fingers.

"Jo-ohn!" Sarah screamed. She was leaning into him, over him, but she was still so far away.

The loungeroom disapeared in the blink of an eye, the carpet dissolved into sand, the roof fell away, showering them in debris and the overbright sun. Sherlock was still there, in his armchair, but Sarah was walking away. She was still screaming.

John tried to stand but suddenly he was too heavy, he looked down to find himself wearing his army gear, the helmet over his head tipped and he held it balanced in one hand. The ground shook and he dropped to his belly, shrinking into the sand as he peered around him.

"You'd better save her, John." Sherlock was saying, he used the violin bow to point to her, Sarah, still walking away.

John staggered to his feet and ran after her, desperate to get her out of this warzone. She shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have. The ground shuddered again but he remained standing only with sheer force of will. His fingertips grazed Sarah's arm.

"You'd better save her, John!" Sherlock was shouting from his chair. "You'd better hurry!"

And Sarah turned back to him, just twisting her upper body to send him a weary look. Her eyes were dull and empty. His hand tightened around her arm.

It was then, with their eyes locked and skin on skin, that the bullet ripped through her skull, tearing her apart before his eyes. John did not move. Pieces of Sarah rained down on him, spattered him until he was covered in red. He could taste it on his lips, feel it on his eyes and between his teeth. Still, he did not move.

She shouldn't have been there.

"You'd better save me, John!" Sherlock was saying. "You'd better hurry!"

The violin screeched.

John turned, found Sherlock still sitting there, he looked perfectly fine but for his expression. Scared. Knowing.

John ran to him just as the bullets struck his temple and he was gone in another explosion of red and black gore. John slipped in it, the sand was stained red, gritty on his skin as he struggled back to his feet. The chair was still there, and the violin, propped against the armrest. But no Sherlock. No Sarah.

Not anymore.

A giggle bubbled in John's throat and frothed at his lips. He ignored it. The sand around him was red. The sky was burning. Phantom hands were tugging at his shirt, prodding his chest. Something fell over his face and suddenly bitterly cold air was being forced up his nose and passed his lips.

John crumpled to the ground and stared, through unblinking eyes, as the sky began to dim above him. The clouds thickened and darkened, forming solid beams and tiles and…

"John. John Watson, blink if you can here me..he's not responding, we need to get him to the hos.."

John drifted out. He didn't care what these shadows were saying, Sarah was gone. Sherlock was gone.

A tear rolled down his cheek, another stung his eyes, but couldn't blink to ease the pain. The world was moving as he lay still, unable to think, unable to form a coherent thought. He focussed on those around him, but they were dark shapes. Nothing more than specters of glass with ash innards.

Another tear rolled.

"Watson? Can you hear me? It's Lestrade. Watson?" No face, only a voice. Not a voice he cared around.

Everything was fuzzy. Better to sleep. Better to sleep and never wake up. Never have to know that Sherlock was gone…

John cried out. He couldn't help it. He felt so alone.

A hand wrapped around his arm, squeezing.

"He's back, alright, bring the stretcher and we'll load him into the ambulance." Someone was saying, they sounded strange, petulant. No? Worried. Perhaps. Not that it mattered.

"Better hurry." John mused vaguely, and those around him froze. "Better hurry."

He gave a sad little chuckle that brought up something thick in his chest. It rolled up his throat, stopping any air from filling his weak lungs. He began to cough. And hack. His bodies last ditch effort to save himself. But John wasn't really think about death or breath, because he was back in the desert, with the red sand beneath his boots.

~OO~

"Wake up, Sherlock." Annoying. Sherlock didn't like to follow orders. He wouldn't.

Besides, he wasn't asleep, he was just….dozing. So _technically,_ he couldnt wake up. He moaned gently, one hand went to gingerly finger the pain at his temple while the other seemed to float listeless about him. He encountered bandages at his head and frowned, odd. He didn't remember getting hurt.

Not good.

Sherlock opened his eyes and the scene swam before him.

Lestrade was crouched beside him, but did no register his awakening, his attention was held on something else, a little ways away. People were surrounding something_. Something._

_John_, a voice whispered in his head. And he was clambering to his feet and wonkily making his way over to the crowd of people. Out of the corner of his eye he saw others, hovering a few meters away, as if not daring to come any closer. He paid them no heed, intent on reaching John before someone could stop him.

The paramedics were strapping an oxygen mask to John's face. Sticking him with needles. Palpating his chest, his stomach…

John suddenly groaned, his eyes flickering around him in clear confusion. His lips stumbled over unheard words and Sherlock pushed through the paramedics to get to him. He crawled so close his nose almost touched the doctos clammy forehead. He peered down into those unfocussed eyes and wondered, not for the first time, what was going on in John Watson's head.

As if it would held, Sherlock tapped his index finger to the tip of John's nose. John blinked and twitched with each little tap, but not like it bothered him, not at all. There was an expression on his face, one that made him smile, ever so slightly.

"Hello, John." He said softly, and John smiled.

It was a strange kind of smile, blood coated his teeth, staining his lips and overflowing to roll in little red droplets down his chin and cheeks. But he was smiling and he looked so hopeful, so relieved. His lips moved but no sound emerged.

"Excuse me sir, we need to get him to the hospital. You'll have to ride in the other Ambulance." One of the paramedics said, sounding rather put out. He pushed Sherlock out of the way, seemingly uncaring to the way he toppled over at the shove.

But Sherlock's eyes were locked on John. John, who had saved his life at the risk of his own. John, who was his only friend and who had grounded him.

He watched a flicker of uncertainty cross John's face, his breathing sped up and hissed through his gritted teeth. But other than that he did not move, perhaps he couldn't, only his eyes and the rise and fall of his chest. John blinked up at him and Sherlock's resolve hardened.

"Quiet unacceptable." He said stiffly. "I will be riding with him to the hospital."

But the paramedics wouldn't be coerced. They glared at him. Part of Sherlock wondered whether this was normal, whether all Paramedics were this grumpy, or maybe it was their reaction to him. He'd been told he wasn't much of a people person. He supposed it was true, then.

"No, I -" Sherlock began again, but this time it was Lestrade who stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. He gently pulled Sherlock away from the still staring John and brought him to his feet.

"I'll drive you to the hospital, okay? Sherlock?" He said patiently, but Sherlock wouldn't look at him, distracted.

"Yes, yes, fine then. If it must be that way."

"It must." One of the paramedics mumbled peevishly.

Lestrade frowned at the man but said nothing more than, "We'll meet you at the hospital." And then he was pulling Sherlock away, it was almost like a piece of himself was stretching, being pulled taught with every step away from John he took. But at last it snapped, like the last strands holding a tooth in place. He felt numbed as the binding was broken and he walked stiffly beside Lestrade.

"Why must it?" He asked of no one in particular, and narrowed his eyes.

~OO~

Why was Sherlock walking away? It was, John decided, quiet unfair.

He didn't want ot be alone. Not after he'd realised his friend was alive. Not Dead.

Not dead.

But he could still see it, the bullet shattering Sherlocks skull into a million pieces. And the blood spraying his limbs and his face.

John licked his lips and tasted it, coppery, sickening.

"Sherlock." He tried to say. "Come back."

Those blurry figures were around him again, converging. He wanted to push them away, tell them to call Sherlock back. But they remained impassive, and he didn't like it. Alone again. Once more.

He was lifted, rigidly, onto a stretcher. He felt the air shift, bouncing, they were carrying him over the rubble, the remains of the tiles. He rolled his eyes around but caught only shifting colours and the whirring of dizzyness, he shivered against the cold. It was creeping up into and around his limbs, digging deep into his skin until it reached his bones. He felt brittle and weak.

Shudders began to dance across body, and the first etching of pain carressed the edges of his awareness. Like claws tickling his innards, his bones. He did not resent the pain, because it let him know that he was still alive. That he was still aware and that he was not, in any sense at all, dead.

The night hit him with an almost physical blow, the moons rays were so bright that they lit up the area with an eerie glow. John tried to blink but his lashes only trembled. So cold.

"He's going into shock. We need to hurry." One of the blurs above him said. Shock. Yes, that sounded about right.

Shock. Cold. Blood loss and internal injuries. The bomb….

"Alright, easy, try not to jostle him. He needs to stay alive until we get there."

That, _that_, did not sound right. Didn't they want to keep him alive?

John felt a sputter of fear, of bewilderment. But it was quickly swallowed up by a wave of tiredness and he felt his awarness slipping away. He watched the dizzying spin of the stars above, the moon watching him and the shadowed blurs that were carrying him.

John listened to sounds of his body. His chest was gurgling, bubbling, something crackled and the cool crackle of blood trickling into his lungs made his stomach churn. Darkness encompased his vision, creeping into the corners until he saw only a pinprick of light.

And then even that was snuffed out. Leaving him to feel the cold and the loneliness more acutely than ever.

~OO~

The car was filled with an awful kind of silence. It was stuffy, the heat was on full blast, yet Sherlock still shivered inside his damp coat. Lestrade kept glancing at him, concerned for the other man despite himself.

"You've no need to worry, Lestrade, I'm not going to break down on you." Sherlock drawled after a time.

"You were just blown up, Sherlock, you have the right to break down."

"But," he replied caustically. "I will not. I would like silence, now."

And so the cars was once more drowned in that thickened silence. There were no other cars out, it was almost one in the morning, they should have been in bed, themselves.

Sherlock stared blankly out of the car window. He thought of Moriarty. The man was dangerous. Beyond deadly. Moriarty had to die. It was a simple fact.

Sherlock pulled out his phone when it buzzed.

_What of it?_

_MH_

He gritted his death. Damn his brother! He interfered when it suited him but he played ignorant when he couldn't be bothered. His fingers flew over the phone, eyes narrowed.

_John in hospital._

_SH_

He tucked the phone away, annoyed. If Mycroft wasn't willing to help, then he didn't need him. He ignored the next message, didn't even bother. Sherlock watched as the hospital loomed up ahead, he wondered if the ambulance had already arrived and, if so, how was John going?

~OO~

"Watson! What the hell are you doing? Get a move on!"

The ground shuddered beneath his feet. He clung to the helmet on his head and lurched after the man running ahead of him. Gunfire momentarily deafened him, but he carried on, feeling the straps of his med kit digging into his shoulders. A scream echoed at his right.

"Get over here, Watson!" A hand yanked his shoulder, dragging him down to the red stained sand beside a man who's neck looked like raw meat.

John showed no expression, his training allowed him to think calmly in cases of emergency, and he didn't want to show this man how seriously screwed he was. He dumped his kit beside him and pulled out bandages, pressing them against the wounded soldier's neck. The man gargled something, eyes wide, but John could not find any words to console him. This man was dead anyway.

"Can you save him?" The soldier asked beside him, looking hopeful but grim.

John pressed his lips into a thin line, unwilling to answer. But perhaps the soldier registered the hesitation, because his expression turned bleak.

White doves flew high in the sky, letting loose a barrage of bombs that, when they hit the ground, seemed to shake the whole earth.

"G-gonna diie.." The wounded man said. He gritted his teeth and his hands fumbled blindly around him. John sighed heavily. The earth shuddered, people shouted and screams made him cringe and hug low to the sand.

The wounded man made a strange sound and John refocussed his attention on him. He frowned when he saw the gun pointed at him. Wobbling in the weak man's hand.

He didn't move. They were close enough that no matter which way he turned, he would be hit. More blood oozed from between his fingers but he didn't take his hands away.

They did not say a thing, staring at each other and listening vaguely to the sounds of the war going on around them.

The wounded man pulled the trigger.

Somewhere deep in John, he knew that this was wrong, that he had not been shot by someone he was trying to help. But the bullet still tore through him, hitting his shoulder and spinning him back into the sand where he lay, gasping, and wondering what the hell was going on.

Each time he breathed he felt the red sand rasping against his throat, drying his mouth out and filling his lungs. He coughed. Couldn't breathe. His body arched, trying to simultaniously curl in on himself and pull himself apart.

He opened his eyes. A familiar face looked down on him, smiling. Happy.

* * *

Wow...!

20 reveiws for one chapter, I totally hadnt expected that! You guys are so unbelievably awesome!

And I hope I've done this chapter like the first, I hope you enjoyed it and stay tuned for more!

If you want more...

_House Calls_ - House Calls and I are in agreement, we want to keep John and Sherlock as friends. So If anyone is expecting slash, I'm sorry! I have nothing against it, nothing at all, but I cant bring myself to write slash, not when I know my twin snoops on my writings occasionaly!

_Takaouto _- As Takaouto pointed out, I havent stayed true to the end of the TGG ending, the dialogue is very different. I wanted do to this simply because I wanted to make it a little different! Hope no one minds!

_SilverSmile _- SilverSmile said that this was one of the few fics she'd read that had a bad reaction to the bomb, that bembazzles me, I mean, I would have thought a lot of people would like to play around with this idea. Has anyone seen any such stories? I'd love to take a look at them!

-Alerix Slynn


	3. Chapter 3

~ Requiem ~

A happy face. Smiling.

John stared.

"No." He said, but the small word was muffled by the blood in his mouth and the mask smothering his face. "No."

"It would have been quite inane, Doctor, had I simply let the both of you break free, when we had just had such a delightful meeting, wouldn't you agree?"

Moriarty leaned into him, over him. His pale face was smeared with blood, deep wounds lined half of his face, hinting that he had, indeed, tried to run from the bomb. John felt a delicate flutter of triumph, Moriarty was just as human, just as vulnerable as any man.

But it was gone as quickly as it came.

Blood bubbled at his lip.

Moriarty gazed at him a while longer, not saying anything, barely moving. His features were curled into an expression of inquisitiveness, but it seemed somehow a façade, his eyes were taking on a faraway look and his jaw was trembling.

John rolled his eyes down to look at the other man's shirt, his suit jacket had been stripped off him and his white shirt was stained red, the color blossoming even wider as they spoke. That flicker of triumph flitted through him once more.

Clearly, Moriarty had sustained injuries not unlike his own, although, John's chances of survival were dwindling with each passing second that his wounds remained untreated.

He gasped awkwardly as his lungs heaved.

It seemed to break Moriarty's daze, and he leaned back, his back drooping to rest against the ambulance wall. His wounds had not been tended, either. And it occurred to John, then, that maybe these men were not paramedics at all, and that the ambulance was simply a ruse.

It seemed somehow laughable, considering that both he and Moriarty were wounded, that the man who appeared to have answers for everything, was lacking in medical care. Indeed, John felt a chuckle rising from the depths of his ravaged body, billowing upward until it sputtered at his mouth, spraying the oxygen mask a bright red.

"You do appear quite injured, John. I apologize for the lack of medical presence, but I am, at this stage, more occupied by the idea of safely returning to our ideal location." Moriarty mused aloud, "With Sherlock on his way to the hospital, we can spend a little more time together. Just you and me."

John felt his eyes flutter, but steeled himself, he didn't want to fall asleep around this man. He was dangerous. Deadly.

"You have nothing to fear, John, I wouldn't have kept you alive until now, only to kill you while you slept. That would be quite senseless."

John mumbled something.

"Ah, and what about dear Sherlock? Hmm? Yes, I suppose you would be worried about him, you two seem to have a….strong relationship."

John watched Moriarty's lips curl at that, as if he were unhappy that Sherlock and he were friends. John supposed the man was jealous, that he wanted the famous Sherlock Holmes all to himself.

Moriarty seemed to shiver, he stared at John as he slumped more heavily against the wall, and it was John's last thought, as he felt himself sinking into that red sand again, that perhaps Moriarty was a little more insane than he cared to admit.

~OO~

"Don't you think they would have been here by now?" Sherlock asked of Lestrade as they sat in one of the rooms in the hospital. Lestrade shifted from foot to foot, his eyes darting around the crowd and the hospital staff.

"Maybe, maybe they're stuck in traffic." He said, trying to placate the man.

"Don't be a fool- ow, will you stop _that_?" Sherlock glared at the nurse stitching his temple, her expression was bleak, but she did not seem put off.

"We were just blown up by Moriarty, the chances of this being purely coincidental are minute." Sherlock retorted again. He winced as the needle passed through his skin, but he had declined any pain killers, wanting to keep his mind focussed entirely without the fuzz of a narcotic to mess it up.

In the end he grew too restless, and lept from the bed, pacing the room as Lestrade quickly apologized to the nurse and ushered her out. Closing the door, he effectively cut them off from all hospital sounds.

Sherlock gave a little twitch of his fingers, steepling them under his bottom lip as he thought.

"What's all this, Sherlock? You know who blew you up? Then why the devil didn't you say so?" Lestrade asked, his patience wearing thin.

Sherlock gave a big, gusty sigh. He tolerated Lestrade because he was lenient, because he was better than those other idiots. Something ticked in his mind, then, and he slowed his hasty pacing. He looked to the other man.

"Did you find anyone there, at the pool?"

"No, no one but the two of you, why? Sherlock, why?" Lestrade huffed as Sherlock made his way to the door, but one of his legs seemed to buckle and his arms windmilled crazily to keep him upright. Lestrade gripped his coat, still damp, and hauled him back over to the bed, depositing him onto it before the other man could complain.

Lestrade then hurried to the door, stuck his head out, and called to a passing nurse. She and another came in without another word.

They smiled politely at him and Sherlock, who was still by the bed, sulking like a child. The taller of the two nurses, a young man with a pleasant smile and knowing eyes, moved forward until he stood in front of Sherlock.

"Could you possibly...give him something for the pain?" Lestrade muttered to the nurses, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

"I heard that, Lestrade. And I do not want anything for the pain. You hear me?" Sherlock said loudly.

But the female nurse had already moved over beside the bed and was reaching for his arm. He jerked it back.

"And what, precisely, do you think you're doing?"He hissed, but the male nurse had gently grabbed his arm and the needle was plunged into the vein. He fought it. Desperately wanted to remain awake and aware. But the pull was irresistible.

He felt his lashes flutter.

"John," He slurred. "Find John."

And then he was falling back. His head hitting the thin mattress beneath him and sinking into it, through it. His face was smothered by the blankets and his hands swallowed, Sherlock gasped but found his lungs startlingly empty.

His sleep was unnatural and boring, leaving a sour taste dancing over his tongue.

~OO~

John's hand clenched in the red sand.

Moriarty was plucking at his stained shirt, as if he were hot. And indeed, beads of perspiration were gathering on his pale forehead and rolling down his temple, his cheeks. But, John thought silently, it was bloody freezing in the ambulance.

He blinked up at the ambulance ceiling. He could not see out of the darkened windows, but he did not want to look at those blurred shadows crouched around him, their eyes hooded, leaking a kind of bleak, unemotional feralness that set his teeth on edge.

John could feel the hollow sun above his head, warming the gun his hands.

When he blinked, Moriarty was hovering above him, a strange twist setting his mouth to one side and his eyes looked on with an emptiness and a distant sheen. John wondered if Moriarty was thinking anything at all.

Anything at all.

And then he twitched, eyes shifting restlessly down to meet John's somewhat agonized stare with something akin to distaste.

The other man breathed out a low breath and John felt it feather his face. Moriarty raised one blood stained finger and touched it to John's forehead, between his eyebrows.

"Go to sleep."Moriarty said, and John was falling back into that familiar place that was neither life nor death, but represented both.

~OO~

Sherlock dreamed of running.

Alone.

Chasing something he could not quite fathom.

~OO~

He trembled as he stood before them, his uniform discoloured, a dirty kind of crimson that covered him from head to toes. His shoulder throbbed in time to the beating of his heart.

Thump

Tha-thump

Thump

Tha-thump

He listened to it, silently, for a time. He knew he could not hold back the horror that danced across his face, it widened his eyes and tipped his mouth, gaping.

"Can't you smell that, John? It smells like burning toast." Sherlock was saying. "Did you leave it in too long again?"

John stuttered at Sherlock's conversational tone.

"S-sorry, I couldn't get the toaster t-to work."

Sherlock was standing in the red sand. Sarah's hand in his. And, although Sherlock seemed unharmed, whole, Sarah was no more than a walking corpse. She had no face. Her head was a mass of bloody pulp and meat, neck torn away to revealing the glistening white of her spine.

A line of crimson rolled down her shoulder, her arm, wrist. Pale. A shudder.

Shiver.

The droplet slid over their entwined hands, leaving an almost tear track like line over their fingers before falling, like a small ruby crystal, to the sand at their bare feet.

John felt his hands grip on the gun loosen and he looked down to see it falling from his fingers. His foot twitched and then jumped forward.

"Beautiful, aren't they John?" His gaze slid to the smartly dressed man now beside him. Moriarty was watching Sherlock and Sarah, his head cocked to one side.

John felt his body mimicking, beyond control, to do the same.

He cringed as the strap of his pack dug into his neck.

"They make a perfect couple. We shouldn't split them up." Moriarty's voice rose and dipped as he spoke, but the gloating tone remained throughout. His body flickered and suddenly he was looking at John. John found his head turning the same way, so that he was staring off into the bomb dented desert.

He felt his body fold, knees quivering as he bent and, with one hand, scooped up his gun. When he stood, he was facing Sherlock and Sarah again. He felt like a puppet. Subject to Moriarty's will. It hurt when he moved, was forced to move, as if his muscles were still and unyielding and Moriarty was pushing and pulling them.

The gun rotated in his hands so that it was focussed on Sherlock. His finger was placed delicately on the trigger.

Doves flew high above. In circles. Like vultures.

Sarah's faceless head turned up to look at them. Sightless but still seeing.

John wanted to be sick.

"Moriarty."He gasped through an aching throat and teeth. "What are you doing?"

"I'm not doing anything, Johnny-boy. You are!" Moriarty said, laughing as though it were simple.

"N-no. No!" He fought the push on his index finger, but it was no use. The trigger depressed beneath his fingertip and the bullets sprayed in a horrific arch of back gnats.

John realised he was screaming. Low in his throat because Moriarty was keeping his teeth firmly clench. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the other man holding his empty hands out, the same as he was.

Sherlock and Sarah shattered as the bullets hit them. Pieces of their body falling like fragments of a mirror to the sand. All John could hear was his own harsh breathing in his ears as he shrank away from his own hands and fought not to cry.

The doves overhead were flying fasting, their beady eyes gazing at the scene below them with an almost human-like fascination. And then they darted, because the shards of Sherlock and Sarah had exploded into a mass of blood red moths. Leathery wings fluttering as they climbed the air, only to find themselves ripped to shreds by the doves.

John felt his hands quiver.

"You don't want to be alone, either, do you John?" Moriarty asked.

John felt the gun rise a moment before he knew what was going to happen. He fought it, he really did. At least, he thought he did. It was hard to think when his eyes were burning with tears. The acidic little droplets gliding down his reddened cheeks and his chin.

The gun was hot against his temple.

John squeezed his eyes shut and let out a whimper.

The sounds changed.

John blinked as the world around him faded. No doves. No red sand. No Sherlock.

A dull beeping and the slow tap of fingers. He rolled his head, and blinked owlishly. The lighting was dim, John could bare make out the figures several meters away. A woman, by the looks of it, hovering over the still figure of Moriarty.

John felt a growl building low in his throat, but pushed it back down.

He used the other man's lack of attention to survey the room. His situation. Small room. Three hospital beds, machines and a whole other load of medical equipment that his drug befuddled mind did not particularly care about at that moment. There was a door, but it was blank, and offered no answers.

John looked again to Moriarty. He had his shirt off, and John could clearly see the deep, ugly gashes running over his stomach and lower chest. They oozed blood. The woman was stitching his face, her fingers trembling as she pushed the needle through the flesh of his cheek before pulling it out again.

Moriarty was watching her with unblinking eyes, flinching ever so slightly.

John felt fuzzy. His head was stuffed with cotton wool and his limbs felt tied down. He wriggled his fingers and breathed out a sigh of relief. His breath caught in his chest, tugging painfully. He didn't know what was going on in his body, but he was sure it wasn't good.

"Ah! Johnny boy, how nice of you to join us! We've been waiting quite some time for you." Moriarty cried in what John thought was mock joy.

Moriarty pounced on him like a cat on a mouse. His bloodied face creasing into a smirk when he saw John shrink away from him. He looked pale in the bad lighting, his features sunk into darkness, yet with his teeth glowing a brilliant white.

"Come now, John, don't be fretting! We'll get to know each other soon enough." Moriarty said.

He cocked his head to one side, and when he spoke next, it was to the woman.

"Clean him up, Jane, I don't want him looking like this for Sherlock." His eyes zoomed back onto John. "I'm sure Sherlock would appreciate that. Hmm?"

And then he was gone, walking out of the room with a casual lope as if he weren't shirtless or bleeding. John watched him go with a kind of apprehension. He wondered whether he was going to die now.

But the woman approached cautiously, drawing his attention to her. She gave him a pitiful attempt for a smile and, although she was one of Moriarty's people, he pitied her.

"'ello." He mumbled, feeling his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

The woman brought a cup to his lips and he gratefully sucked the luke-warm water down. She then busied herself with papers, checking his IV and taking his temperature. He let her do this, before moving to touch her arm to draw her attention.

"How long have I been here?" He asked.

"Almost six hours. Your surgery took longer than anticipated, although I suspect it won't take you long to recover." She replied quietly.

John sank back against the pillow, chewing on that little tid bit of information. Six hours? It couldn't possibly have been six hours, wouldn't he have noticed the hours passing? He should have...

"I'm going to give you another dose of morphine so I can clean you're wounds." The woman said, and before he could inject, she was plunging the needle into his IV line.

John tried to keep his eyes open, but the cool swirl of the sedative made quick work of shutting his body down and he found the strength to fight wanning.

~OO~

Just as John slept, Sherlock woke.

He had the most dreadful headache. He really did. He wondered if John would bring him a cup of tea, maybe some toast. Although, to honest, he wasn't very hungry. But John always made him eat...

Sherlock gasped, lurching upright as he remembered. Remembered Moriarty and remembered the bomb.

He ran the point of his tongue over his lower lip, thinking.

He wasn't wearing his cloths, no, instead he seemed to be dressed in an uncomfortable pair of scrubs, the likes of which he had no doubt would billow up at the back.

Making a mental note to reprimand the nurse who had so undressed him, Sherlock yanked back the covers of the bed and staggered to his feet, ignoring how cold he suddenly was and how much the room seemed to sway around him.

He had to find John. If he had his phone, he could contact Moriarty, maybe he could see what this was all about. But a quick inspection of the room revealed he had no phone, they seemed to have disappeared along with his clothes. Shock gave a deep growl and hurried to the door just as Donavon and Lestrade entered. They looked at him in surprise. Sherlock could even see the word 'freak' forming on Donavon's lips.

"No time for niceties, Donavon, I've got a John to save and a villain to ruin." Sherlock hissed and made a gallant effort to thread his way between them.

Lestrade caught his arm and held him fast. He looked at Sherlock hard, until the taller man returned the stare.

"No. Sherlock. You're going to go back and sit on that bed, now." He prompted when the taller man did not move.

But Sherlock would have none of hit. He leaned in close and hissed into Lestrade's face, teeth on edge and with a strange glint in his eyes. Lestrade didn't back down, although he found he wanted to. Desperately. He supposed he'd never really seen Sherlock this angry.

"To Moriarty this is all a game, John is a toy, a plaything, Moriarty won't bat an eyelash had he wanted to kill him." He narrowed his eyes and began to pace the room. Ten steps forward, nine back. Nine steps forward, ten back. "Where is my mobile?"

He watched Lestrade and Donavon glance surreptitiously at each other. Anger fluttered through his mind, his body, his heart.

"Where is it?"

"It's in evidence. What's it to you?" Donavon said uncertainly.

Sherlock dove between them again. Lestrade was, once again, prepared. He steered Sherlock gently back to the bed and forced him to sit down. "You have a concussion, Sherlock. You need to stay here."

"Since when have I listened to you? John is, at this very moment, in the hands of a madmen, I need to get him back. Unless you want his death on your hands?" Sherlock glared at him threateningly.

Lestrade was silent for a time, staring back at Sherlock as he thought. And then he sighed, seeming to deflate, and Sherlock pushed to his feet again.

An hour later Sherlock was once more in possession of his phone. He held it greedily, quick to open the message flashing across the screen. When he saw it, he froze.

"What is it?" Lestrade was asking, but he sounded far away, unimportant.

Sherlock stared at John's face. Slack and pale. Alseep. He looked small and fragile, like a child, and Sherlock found it suddenly hard to breathe. A large bruise had spread across one third of John's face, puffing up one of his eyes and slanting his lips. His hair had been neatly smoothed to one side, and, Sherlock noted, that hand was still pressed to one side of John's face.

There was a small, plain ring on that hand, but that was the only distinguishable feature.

Sherlock read the time the photo had been sent, two hours ago. And then he saw the message beneath.

**He's mine now, my dear. But perhaps I'm willing to share.**

******

* * *

**

Was this chapter okay? Or am I going too slow?

And phew, finished exams! Huzzah!

Now I'll have to get through year 12 next year and then

I'm free!

How are you doing?

-Alerix Slynn


	4. Chapter 4

~ Requiem ~

John blinked away the residue of whatever drug they'd pumped him full of, feeling the fuzziness and heaviness of his limbs with quiet dismay. He rolled his eyes, catching a wavering glimpse of his own bare feet and the knees of his hospital scrubs before making the move to raise his head.

He was momentarily blinded by the florescent lights around him, shining down from an egg white ceiling and bouncing off the identical walls and floor. He groaned as the aches and pains of his body made themselves known, wasp stings darted up his arms and legs, chewing his chest, digging toward his ribs.

"Reluctance is shameful, isn't it, Johnny boy? And quite unacceptable considering your current circumstances." His voice, Moriarty's, boomed loudly in the small room and made John shrink back into his chair.

For a moment he was caught in a memory, Sherlock's face swam in and out of focus, the first time they had met, before fading into nothing. John stared in bewilderment at the flashing demon eye blinking at him. A camera.

"Wakey, wakey, darling. Sherlock wants to see your pretty face." The other man's hand suddenly appeared by his cheek, slapping slightly. But his hand was gentle, barely a slap. A caress. A stroke. John cringed.

He did not know Moriarty well, but he suspected this little display was for Sherlock's sake. That Moriarty really was incapable of feeling emotions. Of feeling empathy or desire or grief. The thought was not a pleasant one, it meant that the likelihood of John surviving was slimmer, and that his death would, more likely than not, be worse than any torture.

He let loose a little, forlorn sigh.

Moriarty leaned his young face close to John's so that he too could be seen through the camera lens. John tensed, he could feel Moriarty breathing along his cheek, feel the cold kind of arrogance radiating off of him in waves. John stifled his own breathing, knowing it was racing, as was his heart.

"Hello, Sherlock! See! Here we are! Alive- although- not so sure about _well_."

He wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, pulling them even closer together. It was then that John saw the little earpiece in Moriarty's ear, no doubt it was how he as communicating with Sherlock. John looked back to where the camera sat, motionless on a tripod. That meant that Sherlock was watching.

"Quite so! Isn't that right, Johnny? You see, Sherlock, this is the first test of the game, I have the treasure, and you have to complete the steps to get it. Sound fun? Yes, I thought as much." Moriarty paused, cocking his head to one side. "Now, now, Sherlock, that was rather rude. And just after you ignored my message!" He let out a mock gasp of exasperation and then a smile lit his face.

John was feeling decidedly dizzy, the room was spinning, he could barely think. He closed his eyes against the nausea rolling through his stomach. Everything hurt.

"Time for some incentive, I think." Moriarty was suddenly hauling John upright, heedless of the other man's groan or the weakness in his limbs. They approached the claw footed bathtub, and John looked around in vague surprise, he saw that they were, indeed, in a bathroom. A toilet sat in a crowded alcove, a mirror sat above a curved sink and there was a narrow, white, closet that looked as if it had never been touched.

"How are you feeling, Johnny boy?" Moriarty asked him, sucking in a breath through his teeth as John glared at him. "Tsk Tsk. That is a sinister look."

Moriarty pushed John against the edge of the bathtub until he leaned against it and, leaving him propped up there, he pranced back over to the camera and tripod and scooped it up. He looked so excited, so happy.

John watched nervously from his perch on the bathtub, knowing this could not possibly end in a good way. He tried to straighten his legs but found himself sliding down to the tiled floor with a whimper.

Clamping his mouth, he looked up in time to see the camera waved in his face, the lens almost an inch from his nose.

"Isn't he pretty? Isn't he sweet? You're so lucky to have a pet like him, Sherlock. So lucky. But now I get to play with him." Moriarty was saying, one hand keeping the camera trained on John's face as he shoved the other into his pocket.

He appeared to be listening, to Sherlock no doubt, and a little crease formed between his brow. His eyes darkened.

John imagined himself a stone, emotionless, falling to lie at the bottom of a river. Worn smooth by years of wear. He trained his gaze on the camera, desperately wanting to see his friends face at that moment. He wanted to say something. _It was okay. He would be fine. Don't worry_. But his lips were numbed. Useless, in a way that frightened him.

_He_ was useless.

"Quite enough talking, Sherlock, my boy. I'm beginning to grow tired of this. Is it perhaps, that you are reluctant to carry on with this game? Surely not." A pause. "But Johnny here is a major player! He is _yours_, and so he _has_ to play." Another pause. "Very well, if you'll not see it my way..."

With one hand, Moriarty pushed John into the bath which was, he found, filled with bitterly cold water. It was too easy, John was weak and he found himself falling without hindrance. Moriarty's hand lingered, holding him under even as he struggled wildly against him.

Flailing. Failing.

John tried not to breathe, to hold his breath, but the water flowed forcefully between his lips and down his throat. His body fought to expel the liquid but only succeeded in drowning him further.

It was frightening. This helplessness. Being the victim.

Blinded by his fear, John could not see the camera, nor Moriarty's contorted face. His fingers scrabbled uselessly at the smooth edges of the tub, they found no purchase, and he could do nothing but thrash wildly and hope that he struck Moriarty purely by good luck.

Of course, he didn't.

And it was only when he began to dim, lungs full and limbs beginning to sink back into the water. Limp. It was only then that Moriarty hauled him upward, and back up to the surface.

For a long moment John stared, heavy lidded, at the other man. The next moment he was expelling all the water in a wave of vomit and clear liquid that left his throat and nose burning. His eyes watered but he made no move to wipe away the stray tears of pain and fear. Scared. Lonely.

Shiver.

Distantly aware of a voice, dipping up and down, speaking.

John was limp; the only thing holding him above the water's surface was the hand grasping the back of his scrubs. His chin dipped into the water. His lower lips. Upper lip. The tip of his nose.

Sputtering, desperately wanting nothing more than to escape the icy water, John felt a scream building at the depths of stomach. It grew, a bubble, expanding to fill the hollow that was his chest and throat. And then it seemed to burn, choke, he felt it at the back of his tongue, like something living and breathing.

A monster crawling upward from his innards. Claws and teeth. Snarling.

He parted his lips, intent on letting the scream loose, and then he was pushed back into the icy water. It was a shock. Almost as much as the first. His eyes widened impossibly wide as he felt the water re-entering his lungs and stomach. He thrashed again, and this time felt Moriarty's hand on his chest give.

A spark of hope lit in his chest, and he kicked out again, feeling his bare foot hit something solid. Energy coursed through his veins then. His mind was screaming.

FREEDOM. FREE. ESCAPE. COLD.

He surged to the surface. Face breaking through and drawing in such a deep breath that he thought he might faint. But the energy fled as soon as he gulped that air. With a panicked cry he watched as the other man leaned over him once more.

He opened his mouth wide and let the scream out.

It was an awful sound. Like a roar. It scratched at his ears and hurt his throat. But he could not stop it, not even when he was plunged back under and his scream was soundless and even the thrumming of his heart muffled.

Not even trying to hold his breath, John quickly succumbed to the hazy stillness. It crept up on him with skeletal fingers and a starry sky, obliterating anything but the pinpricks of light that filtered through his lashes.

John felt his muscles ease. His body ceased its struggles and the water went calm. He was floating.

Awake. But not.

He could see his hands just in front of his face, scant inches away. They looked pale and bruised. There was a line of stiches running from his left wrist to halfway down to his elbow. Moriarty was no longer holding him down. John could see him, a blurry, half formed figure above the quivering water. There was a blocky shape, that John assumed was the camera, and the flashing demon eyes.

He might have gone insane, in those few seconds while he was underwater. Insane because he was going to die like this. Insane because he knew Sherlock would be eaten alive by guilt. Insane because the only think he wanted to do, at that moment, was stop fighting and let himself be dragged completely under.

Darkness in the form of whispered sighs clogged his mind. Clouded his eyes. Filled his nose and mouth. John felt nothing.

~OO~

It was, Sherlock decided, a mystery as to why Scotland Yard had not crumbled to ruins by lack of competence.

Lestrade was better, but still not good enough. Donovan was tailing Sherlock around, a dog sniffing at his heels with a strangely bulldog-like sneer adorning her plane features. It bothered Sherlock more than it should have.

His phone beeped. He'd been holding it, so only had to raise it to peer at the screen, yet still it almost tumbled from his fingers like a bar of soap.

A moment later, the text read, and all three were huddled around the laptop on Lestrade's desk. The was still. Thick. Unsure.

The phone rang.

"Speaker, Sherlock. Put it on speaker." Lestrade hissed quietly and Sherlock complied, albeit reluctantly.

A little chuckle filtered through the phone.

"Did you get my message, Sherlock? Did you read it?" The voice was unmistakable, a shiver ran the length of Sherlock's spine, but he remained impassive.

"Sher-looock, I know you're the-reee." A giggle.

"Hello, Moriarty." Sherlock responded eventually, voice cold. Clipped.

"Ah! There you go! And how are you, Sherlock? How are you?"

"What have you done with John?"

"Tsk tsk tsk. You've got to play the game, Mr Holmes. Do you want to know the rules?" Moriarty sounded petulant, as if Sherlock should have been excited about the prospect of a new game.

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, thinking.

"Well, incentive is always key, isn't that right? Yes, quite so."

The laptop screen flickered to life. A video counted down. Donovan gasped, one hand flying to her mouth to smother it.

On the screen was John. Head bowed, body limp and wearing a pair of thin scrubs. From the view of the camera they could see most of his chest and his head. He looked to be in a white room, a bathroom, and there was a bathtub, toilet and sink beyond him.  
"How do I know he's still alive?" Sherlock murmured and Moriarty chuckled.

They watched a pair of hands enter the screen and clap several times by John's ear. John twitched, head twitching and brow crinkling with each clap. Something in Sherlock relaxed. Seeing John alive made every muscle in his body relax.

He watched as John twitched again. His neck muscles tensed, and then he lifted his head, slowly, painfully slow. Glassy eyes spun to gaze around him, flinching when they met the bright light. He groaned and the sound filled Sherlock with something akin to rage. But not quite. Pure, unadulterated hate and the desire for revenge.

John shrank away as Moriarty spoke, and his voice boomed through both and camera and the phone.

"Reluctance is shameful, isn't it, Johnny boy? And quite unacceptable, considering your current circumstances."

John looked away from where Moriarty must have stood, and then his eyes fell on the camera. A flicker of fear passed over his face before he looked away. His eyes fluttered, threatening to close. Sherlock panicked.

"Wake him up, Moriarty." He demanded, and those hands reached out and ran down John's cheeks, finger tapping to get a response.

And when John roused, he spoke joyfully. "Wakey, Wakey, Darling. Sherlock wants to see your pretty face."

Their view of the room was suddenly obstructed as another face loomed in beside John's. A young man with short, dark hair and equally dark eyes. His mouth was curled in a smirk and he was wearing a white dress shirt buttoned all the way.

"Hello, Sherlock! See! Here we are! Alive- although- not so sure about _well_." Moriarty pulled John into a half hug, so close that their cheeks touched. John was staring at the camera. Motionless. Eyes a little too wide.

"You could have taken me, instead of John, Moriarty. It would have been just as easy. Unless you intend to get to me by torturing John. But what gives you the idea that it would get to me at all? What have I invested in John that could possibly give you the idea that I care at all. Many have said I am incapable of feeling anything."

"Quite so! Isn't that right, Johnny? You see, Sherlock, this is the first test of the game, I have the treasure, and you have to complete the steps to get it. Sound fun? Yes, I thought as much."

"If you hurt him, Moriarty, _you_ will hurt." Sherlock said between gritted teeth. Donovan was eyeing him out of the corner of her eye.

"Now, now, Sherlock, that was rather rude. And just after you ignored my message!" He let out a gasp of exasperation. But they could all hear the laughter in it.

On the screen, John was wavering. His eyes were rolling dizzily in their sockets and it seemed it took him a great effort to keep them open at all. Moriarty suddenly grabbed a handful of scrubs at his shoulder and pulling him up and out of the chair. For a moment they could see nothing but a movement of clothes and then Moriarty leaned closer to the camera.

"Time for some incentive, I think." He said.

They approached the bathtub, and John was looking around, head lolling onto his shoulder as he moved. Sherlock could see the rapid rise and fall of his friend's chest as they stopped by the bathtub. Moriarty made John lean against it, Sherlock deduced that John was still under the influence of some kind of sedative.

"How are you feeling, Johnny boy?" Moriarty's question was answered with a silent scowl. "Tsk Tsk. That is a sinister look."

Moriarty came back to the camera, hefted it, and the next view they had was of John's lower back and the bathtub. It was full to the bring.

"Bloody hell." Lestrade swore and ran both hands through his hair, but he didn't look away. He couldn't.

Moriarty was dancing back around to stand beside John. He leaned over the tub and picked the camera up, they heard the little scuffle sounds and it was danced in from of his friend's face.

John let out a little whimper.

The camera danced closer and closer to his face.

"Isn't he pretty? Isn't he sweet? You're so lucky to have a pet like him, Sherlock. So lucky. But now I get to play with him."

"Moriarty." Sherlock said. Voice no more than a whisper. "Don't do it."

"Hmmm. I think I will, Sherlock, because you need to get it into your head that this game is _real_." Moriarty snarled the last word.

"Don't do it. We've just played a game, you've had your fun. Don't do it."

"Quite enough talking, Sherlock, my boy. I'm beginning to grow tired of this. Is it, perhaps, that you are reluctant to carry on with this game? Surely not."

"You're game will end in your death. Not John's. He has nothing to do with this. Let him go."

"But Johnny here is a major player! He is yours, and so he has to play."

"He is not mine. He doesn't deserve this. Just let him go, Moriarty."

"Very well, if you'll not see it my way..." Moriarty's voice trailed off and the camera swung wide. The next thing they knew, John was beneath the water, the camera hovering so close to the surface, yet never touching it.

Moriarty was laughing.

John as flailing. Hands the only limb above the water. They scrambled uselessly at the arm holding him down and at the edges of the tub.

"STOP IT!" Sherlock shouted, jarring both Lestrade and Donovan out of their horrified stupor, but they remained silent. Unsure. Scared.

John's face surged to the surface of the water, but he was unmoving, eyes dazed and mouth dribbling water. He was staring beyond the camera, presumably at Moriarty.

"John..." Sherlock longed to speak with his friend, more than anything in the world.

Almost on cue, John stirred sleepily, and then he began vomiting up everything that he'd swallowed, hacking up the water he'd breathed.

Tears spilled down his cheeks.

Sherlock was dimly aware, he dimly suspected, that it was the tears that made him shout, made him snarl at Moriarty when he so rarely showed emotion.

"Get him out of there and I'll do anything you want!"

He watched in desperation as John's face began to sink back into the water. He made a small sound.

"A bit more, I think, to convince you."

And John was forced under the water once more. He didn't struggle for as long, this time. He went so still. And then he began to kick and claw, he must have struck Moriarty because the camera backpedalled and they had a clearer view of the tug. John was almost sitting, but not for long.

That brief pause gave him opportunity to gasp in a lungful of air, and then he screamed.

He screamed and screamed and Sherlock was transfixed. He had never heard John utter a sound quite like that. Nothing quite like that.

The camera loomed.

John was underwater again. He went still. His eyes slowly closed.

"Moriarty." Sherlock whispered. "_Moriarty_. Moriarty, get him OUT OF THERE!"

There was a little giggle.

"Are you ready to play, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked and Sherlock nodded, before remembering that the other man could not see it. But it seemed he didn't need to. "Good."

The camera was replaced to its stand.

Moriarty went to the other side of the tub. He rolled his sleeves up. Casual. Unrushed. He leaned over and grasped John's shoulders, hauling him up and out of the water.

It was scary, how still his friend was. How lifeless he appeared. And he looked so small. So very small.

Moriarty dragged him out of the tub and lowered him to the tiles. He leaned close to John, face hovering over his. He raised one hand and brought it down, hard, against the other man's chest.

Just once.

John's body recoiled. Vomiting out water and bile and clawing at the ground in an attempt to get away from Moriarty.

The camera, yet again, was grabbed off its stand and brought close to John's face. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, filling his eyes. He was sobbing. A broken sound that tore something inside Sherlock.

"The game begins." Moriarty said. And laughed.

The screen went dead and the phone gave that little buzz and was silent.

* * *

I'm sorry about this chapter, it's pretty lame.

But I've been having a bad couple of days so, you'll have to forgive me.

Thank you all for the amazing reveiws!

name : Yes, the plot is as unoriginal as a rabbit poo, but hey, I like writing whump!  
Thank you so everyone! Your reveiws are what keeps me writing!

-Alerix Slynn


	5. Chapter 5

~ Requiem ~

It was an eternity. A lifetime. A second. No more than a blink of an eye.

The feel of his stitches itching at his skin, too hot blood seeping through the soaked scrubs, colouring them purple. A gasp. Chest crumpling like paper. Something sloshing, thickly, inside. Where it shouldn't. Debatable

He was blind, the lights above no more than a hazy blur of white. But there was no panic. No sadness or fear. John was empty. Hollowed out. Yet he craved something. Something substantial.

Something that, perhaps, he should already have but must have lost.

Tears were burning his eyes, tracking lines down his cheeks. They tasted salty and strange on his lips. John tried to blink them away, but found himself so utterly weak and weary that all he could do was lie there, wondering if he was dead yet.

It was possible. This much pain could only come at a price, and he'd yet to pay in full.

"You look so pretty, Johnny. But you really must stop crying, it makes me look bad." Moriarty's voice was soft, but fake. A little lilt at the end of his words that told of hidden joy and excitement. John let his head fall to one side, away from the other man, but found a hand efficiently pulling him back. Hand on John's chin, Moriarty eyed the small man with dark eyes.

"Not to worry, Johnny, I won't hurt you." He said, and wiped away the tears with the pad of his thumb.

John passed out.

~OO~

Sherlock was still.

It was, he decided, the worst he'd felt in a long while. The drugs coursing through his system made him feel jittery and anxious. Emotions he was unused to, and didn't like. Impatient, yes, annoyed, certainly. But never anxious.

Guilt was tossed in there too.

Lestrade was watching him.

"So, who is it? Who's doing this?" He asked after a moment. But Sherlock remained silent, pensive. "Talk to me, mate, I can't help John is you keep everything to yourself."

Sherlock's eyes darted to the clear window, Donovan could be seen tottering around among the men, her sharp gaze constantly flicking back to Lestrade and Sherlock. But she was ignored. It seemed even Lestrade had grown to resent her, sharp tongue, abrasive-ness and all. It was about time, Sherlock thought to himself.

"Sherlock...?"

"This is all a game to him. If we don't play, John will die." Sherlock murmured quietly, tongue darting out to touch his upper lip. He could taste the drugs, sweet, yet with an undertone of bitterness that left his throat dry and his teeth aching.

"But we can't give in to the demands of a madman. We just can't." Lestrade objected, sitting forward on his chair until it threatened to roll out from under him. He shifted back wearily, and ran a hand down his face. "But what else can we do? He's already almost killed John, simply because you couldn't get to your phone."

Sherlock stood.

"I'm going home."

"But-but we need to figure this out, we need to...to..." It was rare that Detective Lestrade was speechless, he was an intelligent man, and he was a detective for a reason. But this, Moriarty, a man who played by no one's rules and whose took action simply because it amused him, Lestrade would not, could not, understand how a human being could do this to another.

"Call me if anything comes up." Sherlock said, and was gone, his green scrubs and dressing gown flashing out the door.

Lestrade watched him go with a feeling of foreboding. He knew that Sherlock would do anything for John, he might not have admitted it, but John Watson made Sherlock more human, it was easy to see. He made Sherlock bearable. Made him more patient and warm.

But most of all, he made everyone see that Sherlock was not as cold and clinical as he professed to be.

Sherlock took a taxi to Baker Street, slipping out and making his way tiredly up to the door. He was about to reach into his pocket, when he realised he was wearing only the scrubs. He looked at his feet, shivering, and raised a pale hand to knock.

Mrs Hudson opened on the third knock, brow raised impeccably high as she took in Sherlock's appearance. But she did not seem especially surprised.

"What have you gone and done now, Sherlock? And where is John? You boys seem to be always out creating mischief." Sherlock stumble slowly up the stairs, ignoring Mrs Hudson as she continued her questions. Incessant. Annoying.

He allowed her to unlock the apartment door before entering, wishing above all that she would leave him alone.

"And you didn't bother to call, Sherlock, what if I'd been worried?"

He went to the couch and let himself fall lengthways, head cushioned by the armrest. He could smell everything so acutely. The couches familiar, leathery scent. One of his experiments gone bad. Burnt toast from where John had left it in too long again.

"Do you ever clean up, Sherlock? I didn't let you stay here so you could trash the place, and look at _this_, what is _this_? It looks like an eye. What are you doing with an eye?"

John's laptop was sitting, closed, on the desk by the bookshelf. One of his jumpers was sitting on his favourite armchair, the cushion fallen to the floor.

"WILL YOU SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE." Sherlock screamed at Mrs Hudson, for the first time losing his patience with her intolerable chatter.

She looked only slightly affronted, but mostly pitying.

"I'll leave you alone to your thoughts, dear, but don't come asking me to make you something for dinner, I'm not your keeper, you know."

Sherlock made a disgusted sound as she left, but was not entirely satisfied when the door clicked closed and he was enclosed with the horrible tension and overwhelming guilt that threatened to choke the very breath out of him. He sat up, stifled in the smell and feel of the scrubs against his skin.

Barely breathing, he went to the shower, stripping of the offending clothes before stepping beneath the too hot spray. He gasped. The apartment was cold. Frigid. The water was scalding, turning his white skin a cherry red. Slowly, he turned the shower off and stepped out, toes curling against the icy tiles.

He went to his room and donned a pair of plum coloured pyjamas, returning to the main room with not one word. He stood there, for a long time. Not even thinking.

But Sherlock was _always_ thinking. His mind _never_ stopped. But now, he was _empty_.

His eyes hooked onto John's favourite armchair.

He slid into his, curling his arm around his knees and burying his face into the cushion. The smell of dust, and of John permeated his senses. Unbearably so.

John Watson was his best friend. To lose someone who had become such a large part of his life was like sawing off his limbs. It left him unable to function, to move without cringing. His muscles quivered.

It was selfish thinking. Because Sherlock was safe. He was sitting at home. And John was in the hands of Moriarty.

Sherlock sank into a stupor. His skin pricking in the cold and his cheek pressed firmly against the woollen jumper.

~OO~

The room was white, padded, soft. A room for the mentally insane.

John stirred, barely moving on the white mattress as a fly buzzed overhead. He didn't know where it had come from, or how it had come to be just as trapped as he was. Surely Moriarty had not gone out to catch the pest simply to annoy John. But Moriarty had done stranger things...

Thoughts as mundane as this kept John's mind occupied. Heavy lidded eyes following the fly's lazy trails through the air. He wasn't panicking, had already been there, done that. The stain on the padded wall and the ache in his knuckles was proof enough of that. His feet were in no better condition, and he had the sneaking suspicion that one of his toes was dislocated.

Shifting his weight on the bed, John winced, gritting his teeth to keep from making a sound as his wounds pulled and twitched. No longer numbed by the drugs he could only hope to ignore the pain, sweat prickled his skin, ran into his eyes and down his neck.

He could sit still no longer, he wanted to writhe and scream and hit something. It wasn't the worst pain he'd been in, not by a long shot, but it was the lying there. The stillness, that was getting to him.

Even in the war, there had been movement, fear, action, blood. Lying on a cot, a nurse administering the smallest amount of morphine, afraid to use it up when there was worse wounded. He had watched bodies being wheeled in and out. Some moved, shrieked, clawed at the bullets holes riddling their bodies, others did not. He had had to get up, move, because another patient needed the cot. No complaining. No sound.

But there had always been movement.

Now John was forced to lie in the unbearable stillness. There was no night and day. The lights remained on, never flickering, no hint of life. He slept when his body grew tired. Used the toilet when it was needed. Didn't eat. Couldn't bear to eat.

John scratched at the slight beginnings of a beard, but feeling the rough texture on his fingertips was almost too much, and he stopped with a shudder.

It was like a prison. Buried underground. Alone. Deserted.

Oh, and there was the camera. Blinking its devils eye at him from the corner of the room. Too high for him to rip it down. Always there. Watching. Watching. Watching.

John snarled. Moriarty was watching him, as if he were a mouse, running through his maze without any hope of ever finding the prized cheese at the end. John didn't want to play, but he'd long ago learnt that it was useless to fight it. He had no choice. Not really.

This was Moriarty's game.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours passed. Whether slowly or quickly, John did not know. But then the door was opening, where a moment a go there had been no door, and there was suddenly another living, breathing, moving thing in the white padded room.

Moriarty almost seemed too bright. A violet dress shirt and black pants. A smile, pulling barely healed wounds taught. John did not think _ugly_. He thought _scary_. Because Moriarty was a monster. And you were supposed to be scared of monsters.

"Want to know what comes next?" Moriarty asked, and John winced. Too loud.

The other man came to the bed and kneeled beside it, not touching, but close enough that John could feel his peppermint breath on his cheek. He came to realise that this was all about power. Moriarty had John, and so he had power over Sherlock. He was the puppeteer. A master in a field of pawns.

"Don't worry, Johnny boy! I won't you use just yet. I have something else in store for Sherlock. Something big and bright and colourful! Because, if I do say so, I am quite fond of dramatics. Makes everything so much more fun!"

John rolled his eyes.

"Do you like this room? I designed it. Its an isolation room, cuts you off from everything, feeling, sight, sound and smell. Just awful isn't it? But quite lovely at the same time!"

Moriarty ran the tip of his finger down John's cheek, wrinkling his nose up at the bristle but not commenting on it.

"I'll let you get freshened up, of course, and then we can watch the fun. Hmm? How does that sound? Good. Okay, come on." Moriarty laughed and ushered John to his feet. He swayed, the sudden change had his head swimming.

He was blinded by the sudden difference in lighting and colour as they went through doors and down hallways. The carpet was scratchy beneath his feet and Moriarty's hand on his arm made his skin crawl. But he kept silent. Not wanting to show weakness.

They stopped abruptly, a bathroom, not unlike the one they'd been in previously, appeared before them, the door wide open. John's hands clenched spasmodically at the scrubs hem. He didn't want to go in there. Could almost feel himself drowning again. The water filling his lungs. Bubbling. Suffocating.

He was propelled forward by a hand between his shoulder blades. John spun just as his feet stepped onto the white tiles. His fist rising to connect with the younger man's chin, although he'd been aiming for his temple.

Moriarty backpedalled, one hand flying to his chin and the other grabbing blindly for John.

But John was already running. Limping heavily, shots of pain sizzling his nerves from toe to thigh. He was lost. He had no idea where to go. But if he ran, it felt like he was actually trying. Not sitting there and waiting to die.

Turn after turn. No one to hinder him. He felt like he was going to run out of air, the room swam around him, yet he kept up the pace. One foot after the other. Run, run, running. Like a mouse in a maze.

John stumbled to a stop, breathing heavily, sweat pouring down his skin and making the scrubs stick to his body. He peered around the corner. No one. He turned to glance back behind him. No one. But neither was there an exit.

A heartbeat of silence.

"MORIARTY." He screamed. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHY AM I STILL HERE?"

There was a chuckle. John jumped, swivelling his head to locate the speakers jutting out of the wall beside the cameras. Red eyes blinking.

"It's a game, Johnny, we can't have the major players dying in the first few rounds, can we? Nope! Come now, don't you want to see what Sherlock's up to?"

Another breath crawled down his throat, burning. His body was trembling with exhaustion and he longed to simply lie down and let everything go. But he was stronger than that, and Sherlock would expect him to fight.

"Wher- where am I?" John asked weakly.

"Good boy. Go back down that hallway, yes, the one you came from, and take two lefts. I'll wait for you there." Moriarty giggled and went silent.

John heaved himself along. Wanting nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die. He could feel the warm trickle of something on his stomach and legs and looked down. His scrubs, already faintly stained, were turning a harsh purple. Blood thickening at the wounds like pus.

He blinked away the dizziness, used one hand to guide him along the walls until his legs gave out from under him and he slid to the floor. John closed his eyes. Heart fluttering. Too fast. Breathing. Erratic. Too hot. Too sick.

Moriarty was suddenly in front of him, pulling him upright and propping him up, one arm over his shoulders. John loathed the contact but could do nothing about it. He kept silent as they walked. Letting his eyes fall closed and his feet drag slightly.

Moriarty jerked a little, and John forced his head up. They were somewhere else, a door was sliding open to reveal a round, business room with a large table, chairs and a flat screen at one end. John was settled into one of the leather chairs closest to the screen. He sank into it gratefully, luxuriating in the coolness of the leather against his burning skin. Moriarty sat across from him, also facing the screen, he looked pleased with himself, and that just did not sit well with John.

"What are you going to do to Sherlock?" He asked after a moment, feeling as if he might fall asleep.

"Oh, you know, chemical warfare, movement activated bombs and deadline. Easy stuff, for Sherlock. But I thought I might begin with something rather...simple?"

"Chemical...if you hurt Sherlock..." John wheezed angrily. But Moriarty only chuckled, pulling a slim laptop from a draw. He opened it and turned it on, propping his chin on the heel of his hand to look at John with a kind of pitying look.

"He said that too, but really, do you not realise that I can do anything I want? You'll never get to me? He'll never get to me, although he'll get the closest." Moriarty typed something into the computer.

"Full of yourself." John commented on a grunt.

"No, simply realistic."

And John huffed.

The flat screen blinked to life, at first John could not make sense of what he was seeing, but then he blinked, and it all shifted into focus. He drew in a sharp breath.

"No..."

"It'll be fun! No worries at all!"

* * *

I am so sorry! This chapter is so short and empty! Theres no action! Theres barely any Sherlock!

I'm sorry!

And I still cant believe I've gotten so many reveiws, I always think "Yeah I might get one or two, but more than ten!" *whistles*

Anyway, I'm sorry that this chapter is more than 1k shorter than the rest, but I have a cold. And, you know, life happens.  
But I wanted to update because **Azaelea** always updates when I beg her (check out her story **Bed Of Roses **, its awesome as!)

When I next upate, I'll try and make it twice as long! Just to make up for this chapter!

-Alerix Slynn


	6. Chapter 6

~Requiem~

Sherlock dreamed of burnt toast, piled high on the kitchen table and spilling down onto the floor. When he woke, he could smell it, like something thick and cloying, and he looked automatically toward the kitchen. But the table was bare.

Light from the street lamp outside filtered in through the curtained windows, giving off an almost ethereal glow to the kettle on the stove and the coffee mugs sitting, unused, on the counter. Sherlock scoffed at his own imagination. It was light, not magic. There was nothing ethereal or special about his kitchen. Nothing at all.

Except that John wasn't there.

Biting back a sigh, Sherlock twisted around on the armchair, pulling his cold feet closer to his body and scrubbing a hand tiredly down his face. He was tired, yes, but he wasn't used to sleeping for so long. From evening to morning. He'd rather stay awake all night and day and keep his mind wired than relent and fall into the depths of unknowing.

He stood, plum pajamas whispering against the armchair and John's sweater still clutched in his hands. He wriggled his toes on the floorboards. His phone, the pink phone, was heavy in his hand when he picked it up from the coffee table. He scrolled down and read Lestrade's message, telling him to call once he was up and about. Up and about? Awake.

Surely Lestrade knew that Sherlock wouldn't call. Or perhaps there was something important they needed to talk about. But no doubt Lestrade just wanted to ask questions. Questions Sherlock had no answer to.

There was a sound, a groan and then the slamming of car doors outside. Sherlock would have given it no thought, but he relished the opportunity, however brief, to take his mind off of John and Moriarty. He leapt to the window and peered out through the curtains at the darkened street.

There was a large car, a van, really, pulling away smoothly from the curb. It was black, slick and clean of any identifiable markings. There was no number plate. Sherlock scowled, until he caught sight of the object the van had left behind.

His heartbeat rose a little, his interest was piqued.

Without another thought, Sherlock pulled on John's sweater and sprang from the apartment, sprinting down the stairs and opening the door with relish.

A cold wind hit him like a wave, but he didn't care. He stared at the large wooden crate with interesting. Mind automatically cataloguing anything and everything about it, from the slight scuffing at the sides where feet had struck it, and the simple latch keeping the lid in place. Of course, all of this was so minor when compared to the large, deep blue bow wrapped around and tied at the top of the crate. There was even a large tag tied to the ribbon.

Like a present.

Neatly displayed for all to see.

Sherlock stared for but a second more, and then darted back inside, where he hurried to grab a kitchen knife before running back down.

He was vaguely surprised that Mrs Hudson didn't come out to see what all the noise was, but then, she was used to his all hour running abouts.

Carefully, making sure there was no hidden booby traps, or rigging of any kind, Sherlock sawed through the delicate ribbon, one side at a time. Once done, he plucked the bow from the top of the crate and narrowed his eyes at it, the tag was waiting impatiently.

_Sherlock, by and by, I got what I wanted for Christmas, did you?_

"Rather gaudy, isn't it?" An articulated, rather arrogant voice spoke from Sherlock's side, and he jumped to the other, staring at Mycroft with surprise. The day his brother caught him unawares was the day he considered his own death.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked, eyes still wide and trained on his brother.

Mycroft gave him that look, the one he'd been giving Sherlock since their childhood. Silently it said, 'Really, brother, you should know better than that.'

"I saw the van arrive and deliver this," Mycroft sneered a little. "_Package _for you. I wonder, do you think Moriarty had anything to do with it?" A stupid question, but one to let Sherlock know he was up to date and willing to help.

"Obviously. And have you found him, yet? You and all your secrecy and connections should have at least found a lead. A _witness_. A _clue_." Sherlock retorted.

He tore his gaze away from his brother and to the tag again. He wanted to look in the box.

Ignoring Mycroft as his brother followed him, he slunk toward the crate again, and placed his fingers on the lid. Mycroft's own leather clad fingers curled into a fist, as if he itched to help, but knew anything he offered would be refused.

Without saying anything, Sherlock tore the lip open and held it aloft. At once, both Holmes' leaned forward expectantly, curious to see what Moriarty had delivered.

They both frowned into the crate.

"I'll be the first to say it, Sherlock, you do make the most interesting friends." Mycroft murmured.

Neither of them took their eyes away from the crates contents.

"I don't have friends."

"You have John. Well, 'had' if you can't get him back from Moriarty." Mycroft sniffed derisively.

Sherlock fairly snarled. "I _will_ get him back!"

"Good. I'd hate to see all the progress he made with you go to waste."

"You should call D.I Lestrade." Mycroft said after a time. Sherlock's arms were beginning to ache from holding the crate lid up for so long, and his head, still tender from the explosion, had started to sting, the echoing pain thrumming through his skull with every beat of his heart.

"Why? What can _he_ do?" Sherlock queried.

"It will distract him, he and his squad are making a bit of a mess of things, bumbling around London asking the right sort of people the wrong questions and the wrong sort of people the right questions. I need him out of the way, for a while, at least."

Sherlock gave a little shrug and a nod. A combination of both, he wasn't really sure which.

If he was to be honest with himself, he'd actually been thinking of calling Lestrade.. If only to leave this…this mess in his hands so he could get on with searching for John.

"Fine." He said, softly. And he let the lid drop back into place with a thud. "You do it." And he thrust the pink phone in Mycroft's gloved hand.

His brother just gave that infuriatingly smug smile and took the phone, fingers flying over the screen as he texted the Detective inspector and then slid the phone back into Sherlock's pyjama pocket when his younger sibling made no move to take it. They stood like that for a moment, both staring at the large crate. And then Mycroft lifted the umbrella, the one Sherlock had not even noticed, and hefted it up and open. A light drizzle started only moments later.

Vaguely, Sherlock wondered why he wasn't getting wet, and glanced up slightly to find the umbrella held over his head, Mycroft's shoulder was touching his, so he too, wouldn't get wet. It felt strange, to have comfort, from his brother no less. Comfort usually came in the form of words, whether snark or genuine concern, but rarely the later, and never physical.

The phone in Sherlock's pocket buzzed. And buzzed again. But neither made an attempt to open it. A few minutes later the blare of sirens and the flash of lights glinting off the rain drops approached. Lestrade was the first 'on the scene' hurrying out of his car without a care of the rain. Another car pulled up beside his and Donavon slunk into sight.

"Sherlock? What the hell is going on? You said you had a lead on Watson?" Lestrade fairly shouted when he was standing beside the two brothers.

His gaze slid over Sherlock, from the slightly damp bandage on his forehead, down to John's knitted sweater and the plum pyjamas, until he caught sight of Sherlock's bare feet. It seemed he didn't know what to think, the usually so together detective looked a complete mess. Lestrade turned his attention to the other man, as Mycroft exuded both a gentle harmlessness and an unleashed authority. Lestrade guessed they must have known each other, because they were standing close enough for their shoulders to touch, and the older of the two was thoughtfully holding the umbrella over both of them.

"I never said anything about finding John." Sherlock said, the haughty tone returning quickly. He drew himself up and fixed his mouth into a sneer. "There's a dead body. And as you are an Inspector, I thought it might be of some interest to you."

"Er, of course." Lestrade muttered, turning to the large crate he seemed to have overlooked. He pulled out his phone again, and peered down at the message, wondering if maybe he'd misread it.

"I thought it might get a timely response, Inspector, I know Scotland Yard usually finds better things to occupy their time than an actual case." Mycroft spoke suddenly, his tone pleasant but the insult clear. He didn't think much of Scotland Yard.

Lestrade frowned, putting his phone away. "And who are you?" He asked.

But it was Sherlock who said, "My brother."

"Brother? I didn't think you had any family, Freak. I just assumed you popped into existance one stormy night." Donavon arrived in time to catch the answer and comment.

But she found herself pinned by the older Holmes' gaze. He said nothing, but Donavon found herself hurrying to slink back behind the safety of Lestrade.

"Yes, well, what seems to be the matter, then? You mentioned a body." Lestrade wanted to bring the conversation back in place. He gave the woman behind him a little glare. "In the crate, I presume."

"You presume correctly." Sherlock said. And moved forward to lift the lid with a savage glee that made Lestrade hesitate. But Sherlock, peering in the crate, and Mycroft, who had no doubted looked too, were both unbothered by what they had seen.

Lestrade moved to peer in the crate, and promptly retched and turned away.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. He didn't see why it bothered Lestrade so much, a dead body was a dead body, and this one was so much more, because it was also a clue. He pushed the lid higher whilst simultaneously trying to reach into the crate to retrieve something. He growled in frustration when the lid wacked him on the back of the head.

"Sherlock. Don't tamper with the evidence." Lestrade commanded, pulling himself back together. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and gently tugged him away from the crate. But the taller man had already grabbed what he'd been reaching for, and thrust it in Lestrade's face.

"Look at this." He said, breathless. "What do you see?"

It was a hand, or more accurately, a hand attached to a small portion of arm. Blood dripped down the lifeless apendage and splashed into the water. But Sherlock wasn't looking at the blood, his gaze was trained on the small, black and white marking tattooed onto the inside of the wrist. He ran a pale finger over the ink.

"It's a bird, Sherlock." Lestrade said impatiently. He motioned for his people to move in and nodded to Anderson to take the hand from Sherlock. Sherlock didn't bother putting up a fuss, to which Anderson found quiet disconcerting.

"But its not just a bird, Lestrade. It's a symbol!" Sherlock said, he could feel the adrenaline surging through his veins. Excitement. He could do this. He needed to do this.

"You think it's a gang?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock nodded. "You should run it through your database, pull it up against the gangs we have around here. Also, missing persons. You might want to check that." He muttered absently.

"I know how to do my job, Sherlock." Lestrade said, his patience wearing thin. He saw the Mycroft mutter something beneath his breath, and felt his brow lower in annoyance. "Whats that?"

Mycroft gave him a lofty smile.

"I'm sure you have the rescourses for this sort of thing, D.I Lestrade. We shall leave you to it."

Sherlock's gaze narrowed in on his brother's before he remembered their earlier conversation.

"Yes. Go….do whatever it is you do with this sort of thing." Sherlock mumbled, eyes wide as his mind whirred and spun around the problems at hand. Moriarty had John. Moriarty sent him a dead body. As a message? To prove a point? The message, possibly gang related, but what gang? If it was a point, what was it? That Moriarty could do anything, sneak under their noses unseen, that he knew where to find them and how they would react.

So Moriarty would expect Sherlock to pass the body parts in the crate off to Lestrade. He would expect Sherlock to move on and try to find John himself.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. Wondering. Would Moriarty expect Mycroft to be helping him? Surely not. But, perhaps.

Mycroft gazed back at him.

"I've always been smarter than you, Sherlock." He said.

"No, you're not." Sherlock retorted. He glared. Mycroft couldn't be thinking the same thing. He wouldn't.

"I am."

"You think you are."

"I know I am."

"Enough." Lestrade growled. Although he was just as stunned as everyone else who had paused to watch the two men bicker. They reminded Lestrade of children. He wondered if they had been like that when they'd been younger. "I want you to tell me everything you know about…this." He waved his hand at the crate. 'And I want you to come down to the station to give a statement."

"No, there's no-" Sherlock began.

"Now." Lestrade nodded to Mycroft. "You too."

"Fine. Give us a moment, we'll meet you there after breakfast."

"But I need-" This time it was Mycroft who cut Lestrade off midsentence.

"He's my brother. I know whats good for him."

The uncommon display of brotherly concern shocked them all.

~OO~

"You've been watching him…us, this whole time."

Moriarty looked please. His smile stretched the stiched marching across his face.

"I have. I know all about you, Johnny. I also know Sherlock would do anything to find you, kill me. Its game, a higher thinker against a higher thinker, fighting over a pretty little pet like you." Moriarty said conversationally. "And I'm not going to make this easy, he'll be treading through a bit of my garbage, unfortunately. There's some people who you should just never cross."

John was speechless for a long moment, he didn't know what to say, how to react.

"This isn't a _game_."

"It is."

"You can't play with someones life."

"Oh, I can."

"And, Sherlock, you can't just send him into…_that_. They _will_ kill him! I thought you didn't want to kill him." John sputtered desperately.

Moriarty pressed his lips together and spared a glance at the screen.

"Well," he said in his dipping voice. "If he dies, then so do you."

~OO~

Sherlock sat across from Lestrade, watching the Detective filling in papers with quick, precise movements. There was a lot of paperwork on Lestrade's desk, which was unusual, the man seemed to like things neat and organised. It was out of place to see him bedraggled, harried, not his usual self.

Mycroft stood across the room, resting most of his weight on his umbrella. He looked composed. Sherlock turned back to Lestrade and frowned.

"You're desk is messy."

Lestrade's pen paused, poised above his papers. He glanced at Sherlock without moving his head.

"Been busy."

"Doing what?"

Lestrade seemed to be struggling between exasperation and amusement. "Working. Trying to gather leads. I'm trying to find Watson, Sherlock."

"Trying. Not finding. You won't." Sherlock said absently.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence."

Lestrade paused, and then gathered several blue papers from the corner of his desk. He leaned forward to give them to Sherlock and Mycroft, but neither brother made a move to take them.

"I'm tyring to help you, Sherlock. The least you could do is return the favor."

Sherlock sighed. Could Lestrade really help him? Doubtful. Wasn't it?

"Fill in the papers, Sherlock." Mycroft said, eventually, when Lestrade's will seemed to be weakening. "It won't hurt you."

There was a few minutes silence and both the Holmes' brothers filled in their papers.

"Thank you. This will all go much quicker if we work together." Lestrade said, just as Sally Donavon popped her head through the door.

"Boss? There's something wrong with the computers. And the tellys." She said, looking slightly worried.

Lestrade spread his hands out. "And you're telling me, why?"

"There's something about John Watson." She said. There was a pregnant pause, and then Sherlock and Lestrade rocketed out of their chairs, Mycroft trailing casually behind them.

The main office was silent. Even Anderson didn't seem to notice Sherlock's appearance. They were all staring at their computer screens or the telly hanging from one of the square pillars. Lestrade hurried over to where Donovan sat at her desk.

He sucked in a breath when he saw her screen. Like before, John's face took up most of the screen, but he didn't seem to be looking at it.

"Whats happening? When did it start?" Sherlock hissed at anyone. Everyone. No one.

"Just a few seconds ago." Donovan murmered faintly.

Sound boomed from all of the screens at once, for those who had their sound turned up. And only then did Sherlock realise that Moriarty had been waiting for him to arrive. Which meant that Moriarty was somehow watching him, and could probably hear him aswell.

"Sherlock! I see you got my little….present. I rather thought you'd be a little more appreciative. I have something fo yours, you have something….well, you have something." Moriarty's voice boomed richly throughout the room. Sherlock felt the hair at thenape of his neck stand on end.

"I thought you said you didn't like to get you're hands dirty, Jim." Sherlock said, deliberately using his name and speaking in a slow, calm voice.

"Some things are worth getting your hands dirty for, Sherlock. And you have to admit, it is most entertaining playing with your John. He's got a little…spunk." Moriarty said, and there was laughter in his voice.

"I want to speak with him." Sherlock demanded. Lestrade put a hand on his arm, whether to comfort or to hold him back, Sherlock didn't know and didn't care. He shook him off.

"Fine. Say something Johnny, Sherlock misses you."

John's face wavered on the screen, gaze flickering from whatever he was looking at, Moriarty perhaps, and then back again. His mouth worked, but no words emerged. He looked dreadful, the bruise across his face had not abated, and there were dark purple smudges beneath his eyes, as if he's never slept a night in his life. He looked wane, exhausted, lost. Sherlock gritted his teeth and clenched his fists.

He said, quiet calmly for his mood, "John?"

John's head jerked up, eyes gazing right back at him. It was eerie, the amount of hope in his eyes now that he had heard Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? You haven't been sleeping have you? You're not supposed to sleep when you've got a concussion." John said quickly, voice but a murmer, as if he were talking to himself.

"Stop worrying about me, John, I'm not the one who go-" he forced himself to stop, _I'm not the one who got caught by Moriarty. _"How are you? Where are you?"

John didn't even bother attempting to answer that. For one, he didn't have a clue where the hell he was, and two, Moriarty would put a stop to it if he even opened his mouth.

"Not the right questions, Sherlock." Moriarty purred. "I just thought this little chat might be a bit more to motivate you, since you seem to be in no hurry to save your Johnny-boy."

John's face twisted into a grimace and he looked down and away from the camera. When he looked up next, his face was smooth of emotion, save the few cracks in the façade, such as his eyes. His eyes were broken and bleeding tempered hope and desperation.

"What do I have to do to save him?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I broke the toaster, Sherlock!" John suddenly said, his voice cracking. "You need to fix it!"

A hand came into veiw, slapping John lazily, but hard enough that he grunted and pulled back. Silent.

"Enough, John. Now, Sherlock, you've seen your pet is alive and well. I think you should go and finish the game, hmm?"

"And how do I do that the game isn't a hoax, that you won't just kill John to spite me?"

"Now, now, Sherlock! Have some faith! You have all the clues, you're a smart guy, you just have to piece it all together, and then I'll Johnny to you! A prize! The treasure!" Moriarty said, and his chuckle reverberated through the room. A rolling peal of thunder.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock gritted out. He could feel bodies around him, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan. But he couldn't concentrate on them, not when John seemed to be staring back at him, naked eyes pleading. Begging. Never had Sherlock felt like he'd failed someone more in his life than John, right then.

"You asked me that before, Sherlock. The answer hasn't changed." Moriarty said softly, voice slick with amusement.

"I'm bored."

The screen went blank.

"No." Sherlock muttered. "No. No."

He had to solve this game. Had to get one step in front of Moriarty. But could he? Moriarty held all the cards, Sherlock had nothing. No, he didn't have nothing. He had the body, the body with the tattoo.

As he thought, he began making his way out of the room, heading toward the elevator. He had to get down to the morgue, no doubt he'd find more clues on the body.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and he spun, pushing out roughly with both hands. Lestrade stumbled back a little, frowning at him. He held his hands up in a silent surrender.

"I wasn't going to stop you, Sherlock. I'm going to help." He said.

Sherlock snarled at him. "You can't help, Lestrade. You know nothing."

"I know enough. There are only gaps because you've been keeping things from me. But you can't keep me from helping you find Watson. He's a friend of mine too."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment. Studying him shrewdly. Over shoulder he could see Mycroft, his brother's eyebrows were raised, as if the answer should be clear and Sherlock should tell Lestrade to back off. Never one to follow his brother's orders, Sherlock felt himself nodding slightly.

"Fine." Was all he said, but Lestrade looked relieved.

Mycroft simply rolled his eyes.

The elevator pinged, at that moment, and they all three found their gaze turn and stare in horrorfied facination. Inside the elevator, looking completely innocent in a large blue ribbon, was another crate.

"Crap." Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock gave a grim smile.

~OO~

* * *

To be continued...

I don't think there's a word to describe how sorry I am for taking so darn long to update. And I know this chapter is a filler, because I needed to get some facts straight before moving into the whumpy action.

I've brought both Mycroft and Lestrade into the story, I love them both.  
Or maybe I just love Rupert Graves because I was watching Ashes to Ashes. And I mean, how can you not love Mark Gatiss?  
He's the _reason_ we have Sherlock in the first place!

Thank you so much for reading! I love you all!

-Alerix Slynn


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